When Another Parent Decides They Know Better Than You

This week, I had my first experience with another mother trying to hurt me via my kid. I have struggled to process it since it happened on Monday, because it's just such a foreign concept to me. I mean, there are plenty of people I don't like. You know what I do? I avoid them. But this mom went out of her way to hurt me, and the fact that she did it through Jack made it a million times worse. Here's the story:

This mom (we'll call her Mary) was nice to me when I first got here. We hung out a few times, our kids were both entering Kindergarten at the same school, and I liked her just fine. I thought she liked me too. My first tip-off should have been a few months after I got here, when I met someone new who said, "Oh, I've heard about you from Mary." Huh, I thought. That was weird. But nothing had ever happened between Mary and me, so I didn't make much of it. In fact, she'd had us over multiple times for playdates or parties during our time here. Our husbands and kids got along. There was no reason to think anything was wrong between us.

Then one day, Mary messaged me on a Friday to ask if I'd received the invitation for her son's party that weekend. I immediately wrote back and said no, I hadn't. On Saturday I texted again to ask if the party had already happened. Mary never wrote back again. I let it go, even when a mutual friend posted pictures from the party on Facebook on Sunday, and I recognized many of the moms and kids in the photo. I didn't tell Jack about it because I didn't want his feelings to be hurt. But then Mary's son and another kid in the class told Jack he hadn't been invited, and I messaged Mary just to ask what had happened to the invite. She never wrote back.

A couple of weeks later I ran into Mary, and she somewhat aggressively told me the invite had gone to my husband's office. That was odd, since I'd been in John's office multiple times to collect mail (he was out of the country that month) and never saw it, but all I said was, "Okay, but I wrote you back saying we hadn't gotten it and you never responded." She walked away from me. The invitation never materialized.

I ran into her a couple of other times and she was always perfectly nice. And then on Sunday evening she emailed to ask if Jack could go to a playdate at her house, because they're moving soon and her son wanted to have a last playdate together. Sure, I said. I was happy Jack wasn't being excluded, and she just lives down the street. I told her John would pick Jack up around 5. When he got there, Mary said to him: "I hope Mara's not mad, but Jack had two hotdogs."

If you know me as more than a casual acquaintance, you know that I'm a vegetarian. I have been for a long time - nearly twenty years. I started eating fish when we lived in Russia because I was starving, but I try to limit my intake and I am careful to choose sustainable fish when I can (we order our tuna online specifically for this reason). John and I decided before our kids were born that they would be pescatarians. I became a vegetarian in the first place because I didn't believe animals needed to die just so I could eat them, and that reason still holds for me. But it has become about so much more than that in the years since. I'm not going to lecture anyone on vegetarianism here. It's a personal decision that I don't impose on anyone, other than my own kids, who can choose to eat meat when I believe they are capable of making informed decisions that don't require me scaring them with facts I don't think they're ready for. My kids are happy and healthy. That's really all anyone needs to know.

Mary knows we are vegetarians. She knows this because we have been to her house for multiple parties and pizza nights, when she has always been gracious enough to offer us a veggie alternative. I appreciate when people do this, but I never expect it. I am happy to bring something if the host doesn't know how to cook vegetarian (but let's be honest, this isn't Texas in 2003, when I had a hell of a time being vegetarian; most people can come up with a veggie alternative these days, especially since we eat fish too). So I was shocked to hear this from my husband. "I hope Mara's not mad..." This didn't imply that she'd forgotten Jack didn't eat meat. This didn't imply that she'd tried to call or text me (I was at home, and she hadn't). This didn't really imply that Jack had snuck the hotdogs when she wasn't looking, because there was no apology. And let me tell you, Mara was mad.

I stewed on it for twenty-four hours. Half the people I talked to said I should let it go because Mary was leaving and there would be no future playdates. The other half said I should say something, because what she'd done was wrong and she should know it. After all, Mary doesn't know why I'm a vegetarian. She didn't know if it would make Jack sick (two hotdogs could make any kid sick, let alone a kid who's never eaten meat). Jack didn't even understand what hotdogs were. I was surprised he'd eaten them, honestly, because he's usually very opposed to the idea of trying meat, but I think he saw his friends eating them, and they looked tasty (he's eaten vegetarian corndogs and loves them) and he's getting to an age where he's very curious. I'm not surprised Jack liked the taste of hotdogs. They are designed to be delicious. They are also probably the last meat I'd ever give to my kid (some free-range chicken might have been a different story). But none of that really matters. What matters is that a parent took my child into her care knowing his dietary restrictions, and then decided that she knew better, that her feelings were more important than mine.

I tried to let it go, but I couldn't. I felt like my trust had been violated, and because of the other weirdness between us, it didn't feel benign. It felt targeted. So I sent a Facebook message saying I'd appreciated her having Jack over, but in the future she may want to ask a parent before giving their child a food she knows they're not supposed to have. I said that perhaps she'd forgotten in the chaos of her move, which was understandable (I didn't believe for a second she'd forgotten, but I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt), but that this was very important to me and I would have appreciated a call or text.

This was her response:

"Mara, I did not forgot [sic]. I purchased an alternative especially for him, but he declined, and asked for seconds."

That was the entire response. No apology. In fact, she tried to rub it in my face that my kid had liked the hotdog. As if the reason we don't eat meat is because it doesn't taste good. As if she was justified, because my child enjoyed it. As if offering him an alternative that he declined (I don't know what this "alternative" was; Jack mentioned that he was offered an apple and chips, but he's six, and I don't take everything he says at face value because HE'S SIX) let her off the hook for asking me if I was okay with it, or simply telling Jack he'd have to take it up with me. As if she was right, and I was wrong. 

When I shared that with my friends, the opinions of what I should do were a lot more forceful: "Brass knuckle throat punch"; "Flame that bitch"; "GRILL HER"; "Time for throwing stars and full metal war."

Fortunately, I was with my yogi friend when the message came, and she wisely advised that I let it go. I cried through our yoga session and came home and blocked Mary on Facebook, and then I decided to write about it, because that's how I process things. As Anne Lamott said in her wonderful book Bird by Bird, "You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better."

I don't think I need to remind other moms that having a kid over for a playdate doesn't mean we can override his or her parents' rules, whether or not we agree with them. But maybe I needed to be reminded that sometimes we have to trust our own judgment about people, even if we don't know why they dislike us, even if it means our kids might feel left out from time to time. When it comes to "friends," there are some we're all better off without.

Mommy Mondays: My Third Wedding

A couple of months ago, when my sister was visiting, Jack insisted on a second wedding (you may recall our first wedding, in Sarah's apartment. We drank lemonade and danced to Rihanna). I'm 99% sure this was just a ploy for cake, but Jack would not stop talking about it, and he insisted we do it while Aunt Shasha was visiting so it would feel more like a real party. I just got the photos from Sarah so I thought I'd share them here.

The bride wore H&M and was escorted by her husband. Hmmm....

Shasha was kind enough to officiate.

Exchanging vows. Jack decorated his shirt with Daddy's pilot patches.

Jack: "I love you more than ever." Cue tears.

Sealed with a kiss. Who needs marriage licenses anyway?

Always a bride, never a bridesmaid. Isn't that how the saying goes? Hopefully the third time really is a charm and this one sticks. I should be in the clear, unless Will catches on to the whole cake thing...

Mommy Mondays: Bonding Over Books

When I found out my first baby was going to be a boy, I was scared. What was I going to do with a BOY? I had boxes of porcelain dolls and Breyer horses packed away since high school for my future daughter. My poor American Girl Doll, Molly, had been waiting patiently for her chance to don her yellow rain slicker once more (it has since melted). I didn't know the first thing about Thomas the Train, and I was rather blissful in my ignorance.

Then, for my baby shower, my sister made me a little card:
"Remember: Shakespeare, Kipling, Tolkien, Twain; all boys."

I still have that card. It was the perfect reminder that my true love - books, both reading and writing them - could just as easily be shared with a son as a daughter. Since then, reading to Jack has become one of my favorite parts of being a parent. We read something almost every night without fail. I am counting down the days until he's old enough for Harry Potter.

Of course, at the time I had no idea that Jack would take to writing the way he has. After he penned his first masterpiece, "Marshmallow Joins," last year, he has gone on to write and illustrate seven more books. He's even got his own folder on my desktop. A few of weeks ago I took Jack with me to Starbucks to work, and after we discussed narrative arcs and inciting incidents, he came up with a story called "Meteors" about a little boy who saves the world from a meteor that falls into an underwater volcano. It's actually pretty good, if I do say so myself.

Our hero, Zyrus, with his mommy and pet labradoodle.

Late last year I started buying Jack "chapter books." We've read several from the Roald Dahl collection I picked up at Costco (James and the Giant Peach, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and Matilda) as well as The Wizard of Oz and Stuart Little. His observations are surprisingly astute ("This book has no plot," he declared midway through Stuart Little, and he's spot on with that one). To give E.B. White a chance to redeem himself, we picked up Charlotte's Web.

When I started writing, it was always in the back of my head that I wanted an accomplishment of my own, something my children could be proud of someday. I wanted Jack to be able to point to a book shelf and say, "My mom did that." But I never imagined my love of books would be the thing I shared with my sons.

There are many days when I worry I've spent too much time buried in my laptop instead of paying attention to my kids, when I'm preoccupied with an idea instead of focusing on a game of catch, when I let the baby stay in his crib a few extra minutes (or, you know, thirty) so I can finish a scene. Most days I feel guilty that I'd rather be writing than entertaining Will, that I'm simply not as passionate about mothering as I am about creating new worlds. I love my boys more than anything, but being a mom doesn't fulfill me in every possible way, and it shouldn't have to. I'm happy to have something outside of them, and I hope one day they'll appreciate it too.

Yesterday, we came to the point in Charlotte's Web where Fern describes the fair as the best thing she's ever done in her whole life. So I asked Jack, what was his favorite thing he's ever done? His answer caught me completely off guard.

"Going to Starbucks and writing down books with you," he said.
"Really?" I asked through my tears. "Not going to Disney World or something?"
"No. Because writing books is my favorite thing in the whole world."

There are many days where I feel like I've failed as a mother, but yesterday was not one of them.


(Note: I wrote this post on Saturday. Yesterday I TOTALLY failed as a mother. But that's another story for another time...)

My Second Wedding

About six months ago, Jack mentioned that he wanted to marry me when he grows up. I thought it was adorable and nearly smacked John when he started to explain that it wasn't logistically (never mind ethically) feasible. Every now and then Jack would bring it up, and I happily went along with the scheme. One of my favorite things about being a boy-mom is how Jack thinks of me as a princess. I know the day will come when he wants nothing to do with me, so I'm soaking it all up while I can.

I was not, however, prepared to marry Jack NOW. I always figured he'd outgrow it before it became a reality. But as we were driving home from school last Thursday, Jack informed me that we would be getting married that evening. I tried to dissuade him by explaining I didn't have a white dress - "You can wear your pretty black dress, Mommy" - or that we needed time to prepare a special meal - "We can have strawberries and dumpalings, Mommy" - but he stood firm. He made me a paper crown when we got home and was very excited to fill Daddy in on the news.

To which Daddy replied, "It's illegal to have more than one husband in this country."

Jack looked up at me with enormous, tear-filled blue eyes and said, "But that means I can't marry Mommy."

And then I killed John.

Actually, I said, "Ignore Daddy. I always do." And we proceeded to make wedding preparations.

Fortunately, I was able to convince Jack that Saturday at Aunt Shasha's house would be better. I was already planning to spend the night at Sarah's house on Friday night, so we agreed I could wear one of her dresses. "I'll wear my belt," Jack informed me. (He's convinced that belt=fancy.) He also insisted I wear a tiara, so I dug up a little party crown from a couple New Years Eves ago. Shasha showed Jack a few dress options and he chose the fancy, long dress (which is actually Sarah's prom dress - it's nice to know I haven't grown in seventeen years, and that Sarah never gets rid of anything). With the addition of some vintage beaded flowers, we were ready to begin the ceremony.

"So, uh, what do we do?" I asked Jack.

"First we have the vestibal."

"Right, the vestibal. And what exactly does that entail?"

"A dance party. And cheers-ing."

Once we ascertained that he meant "festival," Shasha brought out her laptop and some glasses, and Jack chose that old wedding classic, Rihanna's "Only Girl in the World," for our dance party. We toasted with water. Jack promised to be a good husband, which entails helping with the cooking, taking care of Will, and going to bed at the same time as me. Then I asked Jack if we should maybe say that we love each other.

Jack put his nose against mine and said, "I love you more than anything, a thousand times."

That kid. I swear, he makes me crazy, but he can be the sweetest boy sometimes. I love watching him grow and change, seeing the way he interacts with the world around him and how curious he is about everything. I know he's only going to get more fun as he gets older, but I also know the day will come all too soon when I wish he still wanted to marry me.

I love you more than anything a thousand times, Jackie. And that's one thing I know will never change.

You Are Here

Every year for the past forever, I've had a list of New Year's resolutions. It generally centered around self-improvement (be a better mom and wife, work out more, be more positive, etc.), but the main focus was always this: GET AN AGENT. Every time I failed to meet my goal, I repeated this mantra: "onward and upward." I developed a thing for arrows, because they symbolized forward momentum. I never let myself dwell too much on the here and now, because I believed something better was just around the corner.

So it's a little weird to be heading into 2015 with a nice big check mark next to my number one goal.

Of course, now I have a new goal: to sell my novel. But considering I haven't even started my revisions, it's a little premature to worry about that. And sure, I have something kind of big on the horizon (moving to Peru), but this year, I really, really want to focus on what I already have instead of worrying about what I don't. I would like to spend more time being grateful and less time trying to change things. I do not want to waste energy comparing myself to others. I want to keep this in mind:

I hope you guys will remind me of this every now and then (like when I go on submission to publishers in the next few months, or when I have to leave my very comfortable home and move with two kids to another continent). Thanks for being there for me this year and following along on this journey. I hope you all find yourselves exactly where you need to be in 2015. Happy New Year!

Mommy Mondays: What We Know

I've barely had time to blog lately, but I thought I'd share a little something from Jack. Apparently his class is learning about dinosaurs, and his teachers like to post a little "What We Know Already" sign when they start on a new subject. Jack's are usually weird. Real weird.

Just in case it's too small to read (and also because the typo in there is killing me): "A long time ago, a bunny was burned by a dragon. And then a dinosaur said, "Don't do that," so the dragon set all the dinosaurs on fire, and that's why they're extinct."

So, what do we know this week? That mommy has done a cracker-jack job of teaching Jack about the world of dinosaurs! This is why I will not be home schooling my children. (Although apparently I've done a great job on the dragon front. Go me!)

Mommy Mondays: Eight-Legged Freaks

When Jack was little(r), I sometimes wondered if he'd ever have an imaginary friend. In these ponderings, I pictured a friendly monster, maybe, or a puppy. I never in a million years would have guessed that a family of tarantulas would be living in our house. And yet...

Meet the Tarantula family. From left to right, the daddy, Pinecone, baby Popcorn, and the grande dame herself, Butternut. This lovely trio has been an integral part of our life for months now. In fact, they're so important Jack decided to include them in his school portrait of our family. I'm particularly fond of the quote his teachers inserted in the caption: "I don't look like my parents. I look like my tarantulas."

Sigh.

It should be noted that I hate spiders. I hate all insects, but the more legs, the more I detest them (Google "house centipede" if you like a good scare). Jack seems to take particular joy in putting to paper the most hideous creations he can pluck from his overactive imagination.

The hair is a new touch. But the teeth are what really does it for me.

Naturally, the tarantulas live in a subterranean cavern below our house. Along with dragon-sized spiders, there are skeletons, bats, and worms. It's like someone came along, asked me what I would least like my child to talk about, and then planted a slimy little seed into his head. Where are the unicorns and kittens, I ask you? Why spiders?! My only hope is that when we relocate to Lima in six months, the Tarantulas choose to stay put. Especially because, according to Jack, Popcorn is about to get a little brother...

Foreign Service Fridays: LEGO On-The-Go

I shared this post on my FS blog because I think the project is great for families who travel, but some of my mom friends might enjoy it too! If you have a little traveler who loves LEGO, please stop by and check it out.

I've declared tonight Pizza and Wizard of Oz night in our house because Jack is obsessed with tornados after the warning on Wednesday (how weird was that?) and also because I don't feel like cooking. I hope everyone has a wonderful fall weekend!

Disney Do's and Don'ts

Last weekend we took our first family trip to Disney World! I originally planned the trip around my first post-baby race (I ran the Marine Corps Marathon when Jack was 10 months, but I knew I'd never have enough time to train for a marathon with two kids and no husband for most of the summer). My bestie Lauren is a huge Disney fan and does many of the Disney races, so I asked her which was her favorite. She immediately said the Tower of Terror Ten-Miler was the best, so way back in February when I was still pregnant with Will, I signed up with Lauren and Sarah. 

As the race got closer and we realized John couldn't take time off during training, I started to freak out. How were we going to do Disney World between Friday night and Sunday night? My only point of reference was Disneyland, which I grew up near and visited frequently. But I knew Disney World was a different ballgame. We couldn't just drive an hour and spend the day there. Fortunately I had Lauren as my Disney spirit guide, because it turns out DW is complicated! Magic Bands, Magical Express, Fast Pass... I'd never heard of any of these things. And frankly some of it wasn't all that magical. But for the most part, we had a fabulous weekend, thanks to careful planning, Lauren, and a little luck. Here are my Disney Do's and Don'ts (to be taken with a grain of salt, as always!).

First, the Don'ts:

1) DON'T start your journey in the evening. All that careful planning I did? Down the drain when our flight was delayed nearly four hours. We should have arrived around 8 pm. Instead it was almost midnight. The worst of it was John took a separate flight out of Reagan while Sarah and the kids and I flew out of Dulles. Since John couldn't get off work early, we figured it would be best if we got a head start so the kids wouldn't be exhausted. Guess who got there two hours before we did? Ugh. We drove an hour, paid to park at the airport, and spent FOUR HOURS in the worst terminal (Dunkin and Subway - those were our food options) with a bunch of other families all waiting to get to DW while John literally went from door to gate in 20 minutes, spent an hour at the airport, and only had himself and a single carry-on to worry about. FML.

Hey, at least no one vomited on this trip.

2) DON'T stay off Disney property if you can help it. Don't get me wrong - the Port Orleans Riverside was beautiful and our room was actually quite spacious for $200 a night. There was even a little Murphy bed for Jack to sleep on (which was great except for the fact that he fell out of it. Twice. I learned my lesson and used some rolled up towels as bolsters the second night and things went much better.). But it took at least 45 minutes to get to the park, which was 45 minutes I really didn't want to waste. Lauren's friend Megan put it bluntly (and correctly): nothing is quick at Disney World. Sigh.

Wandering. Slowly.

3) DON'T get a late start. We couldn't really help it our first morning. We were all exhausted and breakfast took a while, plus we had to trade in our military passes for actual tickets. That was a serious process. So, if you can do it, get to the park by 9. Even getting there at 11 we got on a bunch of rides quickly, which was great. But if we'd been on time? It would have been even better.

DON'T expect to eat healthy at DW either. At least John found this paleo-friendly treat.

4) DON'T take a two-year-old to DW. I learned this by watching countless toddler meltdowns over the weekend. Jack was the perfect age for a first trip to DW, but anywhere between a year and four years looks like a recipe for disaster. I guess Jack won't be going again until Will is four!

DO buy matching shirts! It's so fun!

5) DON'T expect to do everything in two days. I think four days would have been perfect. Two days was enough for the Magic Kingdom, fortunately. We didn't get on everything, but we did enough. And frankly I couldn't have handled two more days. See DON'T #6.

Jack on his first roller coaster ever!

6) DON'T try to run ten miles after no sleep and walking around DW all damn day. Okay, so the race was a blast. Lauren is the most fun to run with and her energy carried me through an 11 pm race start, ten miles, a massive post-race ice cream sundae, and a ride on probably my favorite roller coaster ever: the Rock 'n' Roller Coaster. But getting to bed at 3 am when you have to get up at 7 with an infant and then spend the entire day at DW again? I'm not sure I'll ever recover.

Alice, the White Rabbit, and the Cheshire Cat. Fabulous tutus by Lauren's mom, Jan.

My tail may have been the best part.

7) DON'T expect too much from your kids. DW is amazing. It really is the most magical place. But I'm not sure I still view it as the happiest. There is so much to see and do, so many expectations, so much walking. At the end of the trip, I tried to get Jack to tell me his favorite things about DW. All he could focus on was getting home to play Legos and how his neck hurt from one of the rides. I know he had a good time. But was it The Best Trip Ever? I guess time will tell on that one.

Jack recovering from whiplash with Donald.

And now for the Do's (Yes, I did do a few things right!):

1) DO go in October. We got soooo lucky with weather! It was a little hot and humid the first day, but not too bad. And Sunday was beautiful. It was actually chilly after the race! I honestly can't imagine going in summer.

Ahhhh, perfect!

2) DO get military passes if at all feasible. We spent $177 on a four-day park-hopper ticket. Sadly we only got to use two days, but they're good for six months (I doubt we'll make it back, but you never know) and they were still cheaper than regular admission for two days. You can buy up to six tickets with a single military ID, so Sarah was able to take advantage of the price too. 

Riding the elephants.

3) DO bring a friend (especially one who knows Disney like the back of her hand), grandparents, something. If John and I had been on our own with Jack and Will, we would have only been able to go on one or two rides together. Will did get to go on the Jungle Cruise and could have gone on a couple other smaller rides, like Small World, but for the most part he stayed in the stroller with an adult. Lauren, her amazing parents, and Sarah all watched Will for us so we were able to go on a few rides together with Jack. Score!

Post-Splash Mountain with Shasha.

My spirit guide and best friend. And my fat, fat baby.

4) DO get the proper stroller. Prior to a couple of weeks ago, we had a Snap n' Go and a jogger. Neither was going to do the job for DW. Jack rarely uses a stroller anymore, but I knew he wouldn't be able to handle walking all over DW for two days. So I found a good-as-new Sit n' Stand on Craigslist for $50. It was worth every penny.

5) DO take advantage of Fast Pass. What a marvel! The longest we waited for a ride was one hour, sans Fast Pass. With Fast Pass we waited twenty minutes tops. We had six hours at the park the first day and rode the Tea Cups, Barnstormer, Dumbo, the Little Mermaid, Splash Mountain, Pirates of the Caribbean, the Haunted Mansion, and the carousel. Day two was also six hours, and John and Jack rode Space Tours twice before we met them at the Magic Kingdom. We got on the Jungle Cruise, Tea Cups and the carousel again, Small World, Thunder Mountain, The Swiss Family Robinson treehouse, and the Mine Train. All in all I'd say we did pretty well considering.

Everyone loves The Little Mermaid. Especially Lauren.

6) DO run a Disney race if you can. The race was so well supported, everyone was in costume, and the medal is fabulous. Just maybe consider taking it easy the day of the race if possible. And probably don't wear flip flops all day beforehand. And watch out for low-lying branches if you're wearing bunny ears.

My awesome medal. The elevator moves!

And it glows in the dark!

She was this peppy the entire 10 miles. That was the extent of my pep right there.

7) DO try to see everything through your child's eyes. I did my best to ignore the ceiling tiles on Small World and the fact that Ariel looked super weird; when I was a kid, Disney was REAL. There were fleeting moments where I had that feeling again, but for Jack's sake, I pretended it was all as real as I hope it was for him. I also tried not to think about money. Fortunately with the Magic Bands, which you can link to a credit card and tap on Mickey's ears, it's easier to pretend you didn't just spend $4 on a churro. 

That look right there? Priceless.

For us, this was possibly our last opportunity to visit a Disney park for quite a while. I wanted Jack to have the time of his life. I wanted John and I to cooperate and for everyone to feel satisfied at the end of the trip. I wanted to enjoy the race and for Sarah and Jack to get some awesome aunt-nephew bonding time. I wanted to avoid meltdowns as much as possible. And considering each kid cried once the entire weekend, I'd say we did pretty darn well. If you're planning your own Disney vacation, I hope these tips help a little! 

I  had to force Jack to get ears, but it was worth it for this picture!

Mommy Mondays: Do You Believe In Magic?

Because Jack sure does! I was perusing his class wall the other day and once again confirmed that our child is a bit...different.

Dinosaurs, dragons, and wizards. Yeesh. I'll leave you with this little conversation from our drive up to New York the other day.

John: "If you could choose, where would you want Jack to go to college?"
Me: "Georgetown would be good I guess, but it depends on what he wants to be."
John: "Jack, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
Jack: "A wizard."
Me: "Hogwarts it is!"

Mommy Mondays: Life With Boys

If you know me in real life or have been following this blog for a while, you probably know that I have always wanted daughters. I started saving my favorite toys and clothing for my future girls when I was about seven or eight years old. While my sister Sarah gravitated toward dolls with long hair and pretty dresses, I usually chose baby dolls, including a porcelain baby doll in a Christening gown that must have driven my father insane (we're Jewish). It was never a question that I would have a daughter. Even when I found out I was pregnant with Jack, I consoled myself with the fact that it was only my first, and Sarah wrote me the best baby shower card: "Remember: Shakespeare, Kipling, Tolkein, Twain - all boys." How could I not love a mini-John? The mini-me would come later.

When I heard the words "it's a boy" for the second time, I once again found myself reimagining my future. For the first few years of Jack's life, gender didn't seem that important. But starting around age three, when his interests became stereotypically "boy" (trains, pirates, superheroes), I had a much clearer vision of what a life filled with boys would look like. And frankly, I wasn't all that excited about it. I don't get many of the things Jack loves: building LEGO does nothing for me (and any satisfaction I get out of assembling a 500-piece set is completely obliterated the second Jack dismantles it); I've never cared where lava comes from; his obsession with tarantulas is basically my worst nightmare. A friend brought her daughter by the other night and I stared longingly at her ballerina Barbie while Jack pretended to ride his stuffed dragon. My own Barbies are stacked neatly in a plastic bin somewhere deep in a storage unit. One of these days I'll get around to donating them to Goodwill.

I feel wildly outnumbered sometimes, even though Will is only four months old. As a friend said the other day over coffee (she has THREE boys): there are just so many penises. The thought of sharing a house with John and two teenage boys is mildly horrifying. People tell me I should be grateful I'll never have to deal with a PMSing girl, but the thing is, I understand PMS. Greasy, sweaty, pimply teenage boys, on the other hand, terrify me as much now as they did when I was a teenager myself. I find myself buying T-shirts adorned with cartoon characters and detachable capes, a haze of pink tulle always just within my peripheral vision. But I've banned myself from the girls section of Target. I know it will only conjure images of the daughter-I'll-never-have. Or worse, I'll buy something and squirrel it away for the daughter-that-could-be.

But lately, when the boys are all upstairs getting ready for bed and I hear John's deep chuckle mingled with Jack's contagious cackle and Will's giggle-in-training, I feel indescribably blessed (and believe me, I'm not the kind of person who says "blessed").  I know I'll never get to braid my daughter's hair, but Jack is remarkably gentle when he tries to give me a ponytail. I feel a stab of envy when friends take their daughters to Disneyland to meet the princesses of my childhood, but I never imagined that I would get to be the princess ("Prettier than Elsa," according to Jack). And recently, when I went through the box of things I'd been saving for my daughter, I discovered that most of the items were stained or yellowed with age. The future I had so firmly in my mind, the one whose loss I spent weeks mourning last winter, was never really meant to be.

I'm still getting used to the idea that I won't take my daughter wedding dress shopping one day; I will NEVER be a soccer mom if John's and my hand-eye coordination is any indication. I dread the question I've already been asked many times: "Are you going to try again for a girl?" (I half-jokingly answer that I've "tried" twice and look where that's gotten me - it clearly wasn't meant to be.) But mostly, I'm trying to remind myself that the future never looks exactly how we think it will.

Sometimes, if we're lucky, it's even better.

Mommy Mondays: Things We All Need to Stop Teaching Our Kids

I realize the title of this post may sound quite serious, but I assure you this isn't a post about sharing or breastfeeding or moms wearing bathing suits in public. It's about the obnoxious things kids say and then pass on to another kid, all at the expense of my sanity. I've been pretty lucky on this front, I guess, since Jack's social interaction has been fairly limited. But last week after swim camp, he came back with a few, shall we say, bad habits, things I know he didn't pick up from me (I already blame myself for plenty of other annoying and inappropriate things Jack says). Here, in no particular order, are some of the phrases I wish we could all agree to banish from preschooler vocabulary forever:

1) It's not fair!

This one makes me absolutely insane. From the way Jack uses it, I can tell he has no clue what "fair" means. Like I offer to take him to the park if he cleans up his toys and he whines, "It's not fair!" You know what's not fair, kid? That there are hundreds of over-priced, brightly-colored plastic pieces strewn carelessly across the floor and I have to BRIBE you to clean up your mess. No middle class kid in America who isn't being abused in some way really has a right to claim that anything in their life is "unfair." Where does this one come from, anyway? Who started this? What makes a four-year-old think he has any right to claim injustice when he is being fed, clothed, and sheltered by loving parents? Every time I hear it an 80-year-old man's voice pipes up in my brain: "Shut your trap, whippersnapper. Life ain't fair."

2) I'm telling on you!

Jack picked this one up at camp from some little girl named Zoe. If I ever meet Zoe in a dark alley, she better run as fast as her pre-K legs can carry her. I can still hear the way kids in elementary school used to say this when I was little: "Ooooooh, I'm tellin' on yoooouuuuu!" Uuuuuggghhhhhh. Look, I get it - we all want our kids to tell a grown-up if something bad has happened. But can't we just teach children to say, "I think we could resolve this in a more productive manner if a grown-up were involved"? Or at the very least, just walk away and get a teacher without the whole I'm-telling-on-you thing? The 80-year-old man is back, and this time he's saying, "No one likes a tattletale!"

3) Anything related to butts.

We have managed to avoid potty humor in our house up until now, but someone at camp must have given Jack the impression that this kind of talk is funny, because now any time someone says "poop" or "butt," he laughs. A fake, obnoxious, little boy laugh that drives me crazy. It's times like these that I realize how unequipped I feel to raise boys. Give me a PMSing 13-year-old girl any day. At least I can relate to that! Potty humor? I don't get it. (But the 80-year-old man in my brain is giggling. Apparently he appreciates this kind of thing.)

Look, my kid is no angel, and I'm nowhere near a perfect parent. I'm sure Jack has taught other kids some annoying things, and I'm sure The LEGO Movie is responsible for half of those. But if you'll teach your kid to stop saying "I'm telling on you," I promise I'll do my best to abolish the words "hippy-dippy baloney" from Jack's lexicon.

After all, it's only fair.

Mommy Mondays: Life Lessons I Learned at Camp

When I was a kid, I went to several different camps, both of the "day camp" and "sleep away" variety. Maybe it's a testament to how pleasant my home life was, but while most of the other children seemed to take pleasure in field trips and camp food, the time spent outdoors and lack of adult supervision, I had a different take on the whole camp thing. In fact, I hated it.

I can remember three specific camps I attended: YMCA camp, which was probably a couple of weeks in the summer (similar to what Jack just spent the past two weeks doing); Foxfield riding camp, which was a two-week sleep away camp at the barn I rode at; and, worst of all, Sunny Skies, which we fondly referred to as Scummy Skies.

There's evil lurking behind those wonky eyes...

Perhaps I was foolish to think Jack's experience at swim camp would somehow be a positive one, but after the first three days, which all went, well, swimmingly, things got ugly. Every day he clung to me in tears, begging me not to leave him alone. Part of it was the fact that the five or six different camps the YMCA has all met in a gymnasium in the morning, where they sang the aforementioned "Boom Chicka Boom" and several other classics. Unfortunately, it was incredibly loud and echo-y in the gym, and Jack sometimes has an aversion to really loud noises. Then there was the fact that the counselors were never in the same place at the same time, so I couldn't find people he trusted to leave him with. He also hated certain aspects of the swimming (basically any aspect that didn't involve flopping around at will). His favorite part of the entire two-week experience seems to be a bus ride he took on the second day. (He just admitted this morning that he wasn't actually supposed to get on the bus. Whoops!)

While I greatly enjoyed my free time every day - I spent two or three hours in the mornings eating pastries, drinking coffee, and writing, then met up with friends for lunch or shopping in the afternoons - drop offs were so painful I wasn't entirely sure it was worth it. Now that camp is over I'm starting to rethink that, however...

Still, as much as he "hated" camp, he did make some friends and maybe learned a thing or two about swimming: his report card revealed significant improvement in bubble blowing, although his floating still needs a lot of work. (His teacher also wrote, "Sometimes Jack doesn't always want to get in or participate, but when he does he is very enthusiastic." Why do I get the feeling I'll be seeing more of those types of comments in the future?).

He went from a 1 to a 4 in bubble blowing. Never has a parent been more proud.

But perhaps these kinds of experiences are important, as negative as they may be. Looking back, I can think of quite a few things I learned at camp, and I thought I'd share them with all of you. Maybe they'll bring back fond (or not so fond) memories of your own...

Life Lessons I Learned at Camp:
1) Bees sting. No matter how many times you get stung by a bee (seven), it still hurts like hell.
2) Boys are never too young to want to see naked girls.
3) Water parks are a great place to pick up stomach viruses.
4) Chlorine turns blonde hair green.
5) Getting pooped on by a flock of birds is NOT lucky.
6) Rattlesnakes will make even the toughest of boys cry like a baby.
7) Sandwiches do not make good beach food.
8) Long bus rides are better with friends.
9) Sunscreen is not optional.
10) Camp is more about Mommy's sanity than it is about you having fun.

So, to the a-hole counselor who told me to "flick it off" when I had a bee on my pants (bee sting #3), the boys who watched us change through the holes in the wooden fence by the pool, and that poor girl with the white-blonde hair which turned a fascinating shade of chartreuse, thank you for helping to shape my childhood, for better or worse.

And Mom - I finally understand why you happily shipped us off to camp every summer. Some day I may even forgive you.

Mommy Mondays: My Summer "Vacation"

Today was Jack's first day of swim camp. I signed him up back in January, when I knew John would be gone for seven weeks and I'd be alone with two small kids all day, every day, with no help. At the time, two weeks of full-time camp sounded absolutely brilliant. I'd be able to get in some one-on-one time with Will, and Jack would learn to swim. But as the first day approached, I started to get nervous. Jack's never done anything like this before. Eight hours is a long day, especially for a kid who's barely been to preschool. How would he do? And how, for that matter, would I do?

Dropping Jack off was surprisingly difficult. I cherish my time away from my kids, because it's rare and I need that "me time" to feel like myself. Since last October, I've spent almost every single day with Jack, and adding Will to the equation has made it significantly harder to get time alone. Any time I do get to myself is usually limited to two or three hours anyway, so it's not like I have that much opportunity to miss them. But today was different. First of all, I left Jack in a somewhat chaotic situation. There are multiple camps at YMCA and everyone gets dropped off together. Jack, being fairly brave, seemed unfazed. The first thing he said to the woman checking him in was, "Do you have a diving board here?" As if Jack knows the first thing about diving, let alone swimming. But then he was led off by a girl whose name I didn't catch, looking terribly small in his backpack, and I started to worry. What if he didn't like swimming? What if he got lost in the shuffle? What if he started flapping his arms and roaring like a dragon and people thought he wasn't quite right in the head? I called out goodbye, and he turned back for a moment, shouted, "See you later, Alligator," and before I could respond with, "After a while, Crocodile," he was gone.

I walked back to the car with Will and saw Jack being escorted through the parking lot to where all the campers were gathering, big and small. Jack stood on the outskirts of the circle while the counselors led the campers in a round of "Boom Chicka Boom" (on a side note, how is that still around? I used to do that at camp nearly three decades ago!). For a while Jack just watched, but I could tell from his body language that he was getting frustrated. He was leaning forward and waving his arms like a mad chicken, something he does when he's angry or excited. A counselor walked over to him, took him to another part of the circle, and walked away. I probably would have sat there all day watching him like a stalker if someone hadn't been waiting for my parking spot.

Look how small he is!

I almost cried as I drove away, but I managed to suck the tears back in and head off to the grocery store. The day loomed ahead of me, long and free. What would I do with eight whole hours to myself?

As it turns out, everything I normally do. I shopped, Skyped with John, worked out, had lunch, showered, did laundry, caught up on email, attempted to write, prepped for dinner, and in between all that took care of Will (I guess I'd forgotten that you aren't exactly "free" when you have an infant. Whoops.).

My new writing buddy.

At 5:00 I went back to get Jack. I was afraid he'd be bedraggled or upset, but he was surprisingly alert and happy. Apparently everything went fine (aside from the fact that a kid in a yellow shirt was mean to him, his lunch got mixed up with someone else's, and his flip-flops and sunscreen are missing. Oh, and he didn't pee for eight hours.).

I learned a few things today. First, that Jack is going to be just fine at camp for the next two weeks. Second, that I won't be nearly as productive without his company as I'd hoped. And third, that I'd better label every single thing I send him to camp with, down to his juice box (some other kid's High C ended up in Jack's lunch bag, although he assures me he got his Honest Kids lemonade).

As for Jack? Swimming went great and he learned the words to "Boom Chicka Boom." I think tomorrow's going to be even better.

Mommy Mondays: The New Normal

I am a creature of habit. I like routines and schedules. I love lists and plans. I can roll with the punches pretty well when things go awry, but the idea of things going awry stresses me out. John likes to call me a catastrophizer. I believe I inherited this from my mother. Thanks, Mom.

After Baby Will was born, my routine was obviously thrown out the window along with the notion of sleep. Newborns don't have schedules, unfortunately, and when you add a move into the mix? Forget about it. But now that he's 8 weeks old, I figured it was time to get some kind of order into my life. John returned to Russia a little over a week ago, and while I may be ready to kill myself every evening around, say, 7:00 pm, I find it slightly easier to stay organized since I have one less person to take into account. One of my main goals was to start working out again. I even purchased a crappy but functional treadmill from Craigslist before John left.

And then life happened. On the day John was leaving I got my second nasty cold since Will was born (my immune system sucks these days). I also got mastitis. If you've had it before, you know how awful it is. The best way to treat it is to stay in bed and nurse frequently. This doesn't work so well when you have to drive your husband to the airport an hour away, you've got an appointment to buy a stroller off of someone, and you have no one to take care of your four-year-old. Enter antibiotics. I'm sure my immune system will be even more pathetic now.

So today I finally got on the treadmill. And you know what I discovered? I'm completely, woefully out of shape. Granted, I haven't worked out in nearly a year, but my days of running twenty miles a week seem far out of reach. After Jack was born I signed up for a marathon. I knew that was unrealistic this time, so I signed up for a fun ten-miler instead. But with just over three months to train for it and no help with the two kids, I'm actually a little worried. I keep waiting for things to return to normal - my writing, my blogging, my exercising, my sleep, my poor stretched-out abdominals - and I'm realizing that "normal" no longer exists. My life will never be what it was before, at least not until the kids are in school full time. And by then I'm afraid it will be far too late for my abs.

This week I've decided to come up with a new definition of normal. My plans and goals have to shift with my priorities. No more working out six days a week. I'll take three. No more blogging four days a week. I'll settle for once. I knew I wouldn't have time to write after the baby was born, but I think it's reasonable to send out a few queries every week for the book I finished right before he was born. I'll take short cuts wherever I can get them (I'm buying a dust pan specifically for the clean up of Legos, for example). And I'll try to remind myself every day that the only person who cares if I wear makeup or make my bed...is me.

Mommy Mondays: Treading Water

I can't believe it's been two weeks since I blogged last. I wouldn't say time is going quickly these days, but it's like it keeps slipping past me, rolling along while I barely manage to stay afloat.

I know this is what early motherhood is like. The days are filled with nursing the baby, making sub-par meals for Jack, running load after load of laundry, trying to keep the house from turning into a complete dump, and heading out for the occasional errand. The nights are even worse. I feel like I've just fallen asleep when it's time to get up and feed Will again. I know that I'll look back on this period and it will feel like a blip on my life's radar, but right now it's just plain hard.

Part of it is knowing that John is leaving for Russia on Friday, and I'm trying to get as many random things done as possible before then, because I know I'll have even less time once he's gone. And part of it is that I have no time for the things that help keep me sane, like writing and working out. Waiting four years in between kids didn't help - I'd gotten so used to having my freedom again. Being tied to the baby by breastfeeding is challenging for me. Sometimes I just want to go out without having to worry if the timing is going to work or if the baby is freaking out while I'm away. Most of the time I want that, if I'm being honest.

But even though I'm impatient for the future in many ways, for the days when I can go to the gym or out for dinner with friends and know that everyone back home is just fine without me, I also have this sense that I need to slow down, to worry less about getting it all done and just focus on the baby, who has already grown and changed so much. So that's my goal for the next seven weeks, while John is away: to stop fighting so much against the current and just go with the flow, if only for a little while.

Otherwise I'm afraid I'll look back on this time and wonder where it all went.

Life With Two: The First Month

I apologize for being so absent from the blogging world lately! Honestly, this past month has been a whirl-wind. New baby? Surprisingly not that difficult. Moving with said new baby? Really freaking hard. Of course, we haven't made life easy on ourselves. We had my parents visiting the week after Will was born, we moved the week after that, and we went out of town the two weekends after that. Yeesh. Fortunately, Will had his one-month check-up today and he appears to be doing very well. My sanity, however, is subject to debate.

The new house. I love it!

So, how is life with two, you may be wondering? It's going okay. Jack is a trooper and Will is a very easy baby. John went back to work for the Marines yesterday so I'm officially on my own this week, and aside from a bad cold and smashing the car into a telephone pole yesterday, I'm doing fab. I even managed to a) shower, do my hair, and put on makeup b) feed and clothe both children c) arrive on time to Will's appointment with both kids in tow. Yesterday I tackled Target with both kids. Honestly, if you're thinking of having two kids, I highly recommend the four-year spread. Jack is so independent at this age and Will is a piece of cake (aside from only sleeping for 3 hours at a time at night - I forgot what sleep deprivation feels like).

The biggest hurdle ahead is John going back to Russia in a few weeks. I know I can manage on my own with two, but I am anticipating some long evenings and boring weekends. What I really need to do is find a babysitter! If anyone in Old Town has a recommendation, please pass the info along!

I have a feeling this is what a lot of our naps are going to look like in the future.

Right now my writing focus is on an upcoming interview for a blog. It's been a long time coming and I'm really excited about it. Once that happens I'll be querying my most recent novel and hopefully working on a collaboration project with my critique partner. I have a ten-miler scheduled in early October (a humble fitness goal but a goal nevertheless) and I'm really hoping to get into Spanish training this fall. For now, I mainly want to get through the summer without killing my children or myself. Oh, and sending out birth announcements before this kid goes to college seems like a worthy goal too. Just don't hold your breath.

Home Is Wherever I'm With You

Last week the lovely folks over at dogvacay.com asked me to write a post about what I consider my "home away from home." For some people I guess this is pretty easy: a cafe you like to write in, a family vacation home, a favorite corner of the local library. But if you're someone who moves frequently, like I am, it's hard to find a special place where you really feel at home. (Although I will say there is one place I can go to wherever I am that provides a certain comfort and familiarity: Starbucks. I know, shameful. But you can't beat it for consistency the world over! A chai latte is the same in London, Barcelona, Geneva, Istanbul, and Moscow. Alas, there is no Starbucks in Yekaterinburg.)

The truth is, there is no one place I consider home anymore. Foreign Service housing (in my limited experience with it) is fairly impersonal - in Yekaterinburg we all had the same furniture, so I could go to another diplomat's house and sit on the exact same yellow-orange nubbly sofa that waited back in my living room (which is a lot worse than seeing the same IKEA bookshelf in your friend's apartment, I assure you). And for the past six months, I've been a traveling nomad, a squatter in my parents' house, and, most recently, holed up in corporate housing.

But despite all that, I don't feel homeless in the slightest. I think it's a wonderful thing to be able to make yourself at home anywhere. And for me, as long as the people I love are nearby, I'm home. Even during the looooong Russian winter, when "home" (aka America) seemed a million miles away and I was sure I'd never see the sun again, I wasn't really homesick. Compared to deployment, when our house felt empty and cold without John there to warm it with his presence, Russia was a cake-walk. One I don't care to repeat, mind you, but still.

So there you have it. My family and friends are my home away from home. Which is a lot better than Starbucks, don't you think?

That. Right there. My home.

Life as a House

Yesterday, my darling little boy looked innocently into my eyes and called me a walking house.

To his credit, he did say "walking." Waddling, shuffling, or, let's be honest, stationary would have been more apropos. At just one day shy of my due date, I definitely feel as big as a house. Jack pushed on my non-existent belly button (the "door bell") and called loudly to the baby, "Hello! Is anybody in there? It's time to come out now!" He then pretended to open the window (aka my mouth) to see if he could spot the squatter in apartment 1A. Unfortunately, the tenant shows no signs of vacating the premises.

It's time to go, kid. For seriously.

I've always been kind of annoyed by women who complain about still being pregnant before their actual due date. I mean, 40 weeks is just an average. It's not like we need to start downing castor oil at 37 weeks. But I'm starting to understand where they're coming from. Jack showed up exactly one week early, which was perfect because John was finishing up finals for grad school and if he'd debuted any earlier, things could have gotten a bit tricky. Not to mention he was due on Christmas day, so a slightly early arrival was preferable.

This baby, on the other hand, seems perfectly content to stay in his current residence permanently. I know all women feel this way when they're at the end of their pregnancy, and I won't actually be pregnant forever (and once this kid does show up, I'll probably wish he was back in there, where at least I didn't have to hear him cry or change his diaper a zillion times a day). A word to the wise, however: don't Google "longest pregnancy ever." 375 days, my friends. Information that does not make a full-term pregnant lady feel any better about her situation.

Jack asked me yesterday if the baby is watching TV in there. I assured him that wasn't the case, but now I can't help imagining this baby as a lazy lump enjoying a Game of Thrones marathon while he waits for his next meal to be delivered on a tray. So kid, this is your official eviction notice. Grammy is here to look after your big brother, Daddy is finished with work, and Mommy has hosted you for long enough. There's a whole big world out here, and we can't wait to meet you!

Mommy Mondays: No Filter

I've been considering writing this post for a while, but after the hell of potty training, I'm slightly less likely to share every embarrassing parenting moment on this blog.

But only slightly, so here goes.

Recently, Jack has been asking questions. The tough ones. It probably started right around his fourth birthday and it doesn't look like it's going to end any time soon. In fact, one of the more difficult topics came up today, at Target. Here's how the convo went:

Jack: "Where are Great Grandma and Great Grandpa?" (side note: This is not the first time he has asked me this since my grandparents died last year. It's just the first time that my evasion technique failed miserably.)

Me: "Uh, they're gone, sweetie."
Jack: "Where did they go."
Me: "Far, far away?"
Jack: "So we need to get on an airplane and go see them?"
Me: "Weeeeell... We'll talk about this in the car."
Jack: "I don't want to talk about it in the car."
Me (glancing sheepishly at the woman ahead of us in line): "They died, sweetie."
Jack: "Why?"
Me: "They were just really old."
Jack: "I'm dead. I'm really old. My legs don't work. Can I have my new toothbrush now?"

If I was a religious person and believed in heaven, I guess this whole topic would be much easier to deal with. I suppose I could tell him about heaven anyway (after all, I know for a fact Santa isn't real and I happily go along with that), but to me this seems like a much weightier thing to lie about. Jack knows what "dead" means to some extent (thanks to all the dead flies in my parents house in Montana), but I haven't had to explain the finality of death yet, or why things die. I'm dreading that conversation. Maybe it's time to buy a gold fish...

Then there are the other awkward topics that come up fairly regularly (and generally at the least opportune moments). I made the mistake of telling Jack that the baby is growing in my womb and for weeks afterward it seemed like it was all he could talk about. Every time he spoke to a woman he felt compelled to tell them about my womb and ask about theirs. That was special. I have been avoiding the topic of breastfeeding like the coward I am because I'm afraid he'll start asking women inappropriate questions about their boobs. I know it's coming, so I may as well put it off for as long as possible, right?

There are also questions about what fat means, or ugly, or (worst of all) why it's rude to talk about people's skin color in front of them. It was super fun when he asked me why our concierge was brown a few weeks ago, in front of the concierge. I know this is typical of a kid his age, especially one who has spent the last year and a half in two of the least racially diverse places on earth, but that doesn't make it any less awkward.

For now I'll probably continue to avoid difficult topics when I can and try to confront them honestly when I can't. So what if my kid thinks his baby brother is going to pop out of my belly button or that he crawled up into my womb? It's bad enough that total strangers have to be made aware of my uterus. I'd like to keep other parts of my anatomy out of it, thank you very much.

For the most part, I love that my kid has no verbal filter. Every question stems from a genuine desire to understand and learn about the world around him. And I'll be honest, it makes for some pretty hilarious conversations. I'd just prefer they take place in the privacy of my own home, not the stall of a public restroom.

What about you? How do you handle uncomfortable questions from your preschooler?